This is the place for mostly column rants and a few other things I find interesting. People are free to add comments here. If you add a comment, you must either be registered or leave an email address. Anonymous comments will be deleted.

Monday, June 02, 2014

The
leftist ideologue, like the Christian bible thumper, is entirely
evangelical-- she will not be satisfied until everyone who doesn't
think like she does is either converted or jailed under hate crime
legislation. – Jim
Goad

The
trouble with being a leftist-- or a rightist-- is that you soon
discover so many people “on your side” are complete assholes.
--Mykel Board

Fuck!
I'm gonna die! I sit a the computer, typing these words. My stomach
is killing me. Last night... a visit to Todd's Mill, a new bar in
town. Now my body now seeks revenge... in spades. The even browner
brown ale makes its way through my large intestine. I trace the path.
I'm not even sure I'll be able to finish this sen.... Hang on!

Holy
shit! That was great! I needed it.... and I
shat an L-shaped turd!How is that possible? A turd cannot make a sudden turn? Look at it.
Squeeze a tube of toothpaste. It may not squirt in a perfectly
straight line, but a right angle? It defies logic. Can't happen! But
there it is... in the toilet. A turd... from my own body... at right
angles to itself. Plain as the stain on my fingertips. I flush before
I think to take a picture (a selfie?). You'll just have to believe
me... but how did it happen?

Flash
to the 1980s: I write a column
about
the Toronto Anarchist Convention. At that convention, I'm annoyed by,
among other things, a workshop called: Creating
Spaces: for
women only.
How
can you have an anarchist space “for women only?” It defies
logic. Can't happen!

I
scribble in a blank calendar spot: KLANARCHY:
for whites only.In
half an hour, my scribbling is x-ed off. In an hour, the whole
calendar is down. My protest disappears like an L-shaped turd.

Flash
to this year May: I've written elsewhere
about an Oakland Anarchist bookfair. The editor of Anarchy
Magazine calls
for a burning of the churches. Okay, he's an anarchist. That's what
they do.

“What
about black churches?” comes a shout from the audience.

“Burn
the black churches. Burn ALL the churches,” comes the response.

What
happens? Volunteers for Qilombo,
a black anarchist group, confront the editor and his pals. BAM! Out
of the conference. LEAVE, NOW! Why?

“You
said BURN THE BLACK CHURCHES! That makes you a racist.”

Two
groups of anarchists. Both anti-government. At right angles, one
group attacking the other-- becoming the cops they hate. It's like
an L-shaped turd! Impossible.

But
wait, there's more. In an amazing YouTube
video,
two groups of feminists demonstrate on campus. There's a march.
Actually they're trying to start the march. It's not exactly clear
what's happening, but they can't seem to get the thing started.
They're shouting at each other.

And
this is all at high-pitched screeching volume in those girl voices
that are as annoying as-- and even more piercing than-- frat-boy
guffaws. I bet it would be fun to watch on acid.... I haven't taken
acid in 30 years.

Flash
to: An anarchist
conference
in Portland Oregon, 2013. Not satisfied with their
own space,
Portland anarcha-femmes hold the whole conference hostage. In a
presentation, they rise as a trained choir and shout together,

“WE
WILL NOT BE SILENT IN THE FACE OF YOUR VIOLENCE”

They shout it over
and over again. The speaker can't speak. She's silenced by the spoken
mob violence of the protestors. Their totalitarianism blocks any
communication... Government censorship is no more effective than this
bunch.

And so
it goes. Each sensitive group is so concerned about ITSELF. So ME! MY
TRIBE! that it no longer matters what people believe... only what
they ARE. Biology is destiny!

I'm a
Jew. I love matzo-ball soup, bagels, and the hora. Every Passover, I
go to a Seder. Every Yom Kippur, I fast. BUT, I don't give a shit if
YOU'RE NOT A JEW. You're welcome to matzo-ball soup, bagels, my
Seder, fasting... and the hora. The synagogue may be Jew-space, but
you can come in and join me there.

Why do
we need tribal warfare? Why do we need space ONLY FOR US? It's a
cheap version of the whites-only country clubs. Who needs it?

Enough
ME, already. It's a staple of the right. Margaret Thatcher once
famously said, “There is no society” ONLY ME!

Leftist
identilovers say “there is no society” ONLY MY TRIBE. Who needs
it? I don't need to be defined by the lack of foreskin on my penis.
Poverty, economic inequality, the erosion of personal freedom, these
are not ME issues! They are WE issues.

Flash
to Punk Rock: Ratos
de Poraoare
in New York for the first time in more than a decade. Yowsah! They're
playing at a Latino metal / punk fest in Queens. White metal, Latino
metal (that is, white metal with finer asses), white punk, and RATOS!
You're too young to remember when Brazilian hardcore was king of the
world. Think Ohlo
Seco
and Colera.
Ratos
was
part of that.

I'm
late to the show. I had to teach until 9 and it was a long subway
ride. I walk from the subway to the club in Queens. Esneider lives
around here, maybe he'll be at the show. That building ahead.
BLACKTHORN, it says on the awning. The whole building is black.
Outside are a bunch of Hispanic guys-- my size, long hair, wearing
black. This must be the place.

Gilberto
waits for me outside.

“Ola
Mykel,” he says, “you're three hours late. You become Mexican or
something?”

Wiseguy.

I walk
in, grab a beer at the bar. On stage is a bouncer. A big white guy,
with a bigger belly. He's pyramid-shapped. Not aggressive, just
standing there... dull eyed. He's got the heavy-lidded, hung-lipped
look of someone whose numchucks are more numb than chucked.

Also
on stage is DRIVEN
MAD.
It's a metal band. I don't like metal... The band is all long-hairs
except for the singer. Shaved head, he looks a fuck of a lot like Ben
Weasel. He sounds like Jello Biafra would, if someone were squeezing
his balls.

And he's all over the place. KABLU! He leaps from the
stage to the bar. Pole dancing like those guys on the subway. Then
SPLOW! On the floor... this way... that way... confronting... and
loving... the audience at the same time. The crowd is eating it up.
They should be. This guy is great. This band is great. The best thing
I've seen in ages. This isn't metal. It's... It's... Then it hits me.
IT DOESN'T MATTER!

Between
songs, he speaks... in Spanish. It's school Spanish, as formal as in
Spain, but he speaks to the Latino crowd IN SPANISH... becoming WE
instead of ME! I'm in love!

There's
a bigger pit for the next band. The singer stays on stage, so the
crowd makes the action instead. I move toward the back as the mosh
pit grows. Most of the audience is Hispanics. That means they're more
my size. Who can I stand behind? A five foot four inch guy doesn't
make much of a shield for a five foot three-inch guy.

The
adrenaline is rushing. A girl, skinny, wearing leather pants and a
tight tank top, pushes her way through the crowd to the pit. That's
what I like to see. Girls in the pit.

But... she's got something to
prove. Not only is she smashing her fellow dancers, she's slamming
into the audience, pushing random people, throwing them down, not
giving a fuck. She pushes me. I punch her in the stomach. A karate
chop... kung fu actually. THWAP. Not thinking... just a split second
reaction. I feel her tight abdomen against the side of my hand. She
doesn't blink an eye. I wait for the delayed reaction... a subtle
hand rubbing the offended part. Nothing. I'm disappointed... or
relieved.

Ah, the
sound booth. Just three steps up, but those three steps give me just
the boost I need. I can see... be slightly above the crowd, and in
relatively safety. I climb two steps and stand next to a door that
says PLEASE DON'T LEAN ON THE DOOR. I don't lean on the door.

A
prissy skinny guy with a blond beard and tight black jeans pushes
past me. I step down to let him enter the booth. The band plays. It's
more heavy metal, and I'm lovin' it. The prissy guy returns and
glares at me. Doesn't say a word. I smile.

“Move!”
he says.

I step
down. He enters the sound booth. I go back on the stairs. The pit
looks more violent now. Some meatheads, fists swinging, looking for
trouble. They're banging into other meatheads. Those meatheads bang
back. There's gonna be a fight.. a big brawl between these guys. I
can see it. One of 'em is down. Here comes the boot to the head...
Nope... Another guy bends toward him... helps him up... They hug...
laugh... Best pals in the world... Holy shit!

The
door of the sound booth opens. Prissy boy whacks it hard against me.

“I
think so,” I tell him. He tsks loudly and goes out. He's soon back
and I jump off the stairs to accommodate him. In a few seconds, a
monster white guy appears. Tree-trunk muscles, shaved head, tight
black t-shirt that should,--but doesn't-- say DON'T YOU DARE FUCK
WITH ME. He stands at the top of the stairs, so I can't.

I get
it. Our bearded whiteguy told SECURITY about what a trouble maker I
was. So, instead of a 5'3” old Jewish guy on the stairs, there's a
9 foot monster on the stairs. Yeah, that helps the situation... makes
a clear passage. I go for another beer, return and stand right next
to the staircase. The monster glares at me. I smile.

Before long, the
monster leaves for the men's room. Can I do it? I press in my stomach
muscles. Push the fingers of my right hand against my tonue. YES!!! I
puke on the stairs. Then I move up to the side of the stage.

I
stand next to a colored bouncer, at the edge of the stage. Ratos
are
on now. And things are gonna get even better. The first few songs are
fun, kind of speed metal punk... hardcore with a lot of mugging from
Gordo, the singer, who must be almost as old as I am. The crowd is
wild. The band is having a great time. I return with another beer.

Fuck,
the same girl I chopped in the stomach is at it again. PLOW! She's on
stage... throwing her arms around... hip-smashing Estevan. the new
guitar player. He's only trying to remember his chords. She's an
asshole. No way around that. POW! Security is up. there. First the
white guy-- the nine foot tall macho booth protector. He grabs her by
the hair... pulls... drags her to the side.

POW
TWO! Her boyfriend, long hair... skinnier than most... leather
jacket. He shoulders through the crowd and leaps over the barrier
onto the stage. KABLAM! He lands one on the bouncer's neck... a
fist... not a karate chop. STABOOM! The black bouncer standing next
to me is on the stage... and the retarded white guy is in the middle
of it... fending off
blows while the black guy punches back. Then the other white guy...
the macho one... sent by the sound crew to protect them from me...
gets in the action.

The
band stops. Shouts of MATA LOS something-or-other rise from the
crowd. PANIC. People run toward the door, t-shirts over their noses.
Why? I don't... shit... I'm dripping snot... not dripping... flowing,
snot puddles down my mustache, soaking my beard like twat juice from
a squirter. My eyes burn. Fuck, they maced the crowd. The bouncers
sprayed everyone. Show's over, I'm getting out of here.

Gilberto
grabs my shoulder, pulling me like a dad trying to save his drowning
son... into the entrance... to the front door. The door glass is
smashed. The outside gate is down... over the glass... KABLOW,
something smashes into that gate. It bulges but does not break. We're
frantic... looking for a way out. There is an exit... with an
emergency PUSH HERE handle... one way... like at a bank ATM. We're on
it. WEEEE-EEEE-EEE WEEE-EEEE-EEE. The alarm? A police siren? No time
to check. We're outta there.

Flash
to the next day: Gilberto and I are off to see R-Tronika
at ABC NO RIO. Who should be at the door waiting to collect my 8
dollars? Esneider!

“What
happened to you last night?” I ask. “I thought you'd be at the
Ratos show.
Let me tell you about it!”

“I've
already seen it,” he says. “It was on YouTube last night.”

“Why
weren't you there?” I ask.

“That's
a heavy metal place,” he says. “Not my thing... by the way, what
color were the bouncers?”

“Black
and white,” I tell him.

He
shakes his head. “That always happens. Black and white guys don't
get Latinos. They think there's violence. Then they MAKE the
violence.”

Yo,
he's right and wrong.

Wrong:
musical correctness, making THIS kind of music okay and THAT kind of
music “not my thing.” Before yesterday, I thought that way too. I
learned. Maybe I knew all along. In Mexico, or Guyana, or Estonia, I
saw folk music with speed metal with pop punk. Sometimes all from the
same band. “I like the music,” rather than I AM
A
PUNK ROCKER. No one gives a fuck what you are!

Right:
Sometimes race can make
a difference. If those bouncers were Hispanic, the riot wudda never
happened. The shithead girl would have been grabbed, lifted over the
barrier, and gone back into the crowd. Maybe someone else would have
punched her.

So my ME vs WE thesis has a hole, as does every
generalization. Sometimes race is important. It's certainly worth
considering to preserve the peace. You wouldn't hire a black guard to
frisk under the sheets at a Klan rally. We can bend identity... use
it... but we don't need to be trapped by it. Ruled by it. So here's
my conclusion.

We need
more I LIKE than I AM. We need more, LET'S WORK AS PEOPLE, than LET'S
WORK AS (Blacks, Women, Transsexuals, Latinos, Jews, Muslims, Whites,
blah blah blah). Narrow identity destroys HUMAN identity.

English
has two kinds of WE: the INCLUSIVE-- you and me-- like weneed to end hunger in America.
There's also the EXCLUSIVE WE-- me and my group-- like weneed our own space.
That means This is notYOUR
space.
We (inclusive) need more of the former and a fuck of a lot less of we
(exclusive).

and
my favorite:Creative
Digestion for People of Color (I
L-shaped-turd-double-shit-you -not.)That
one includes this description: In
this caucus we will reclaim the dirtiest parts of ourselves, and
explore how cleanliness and hierarchies of fluids stem from
colonialism, capitalism, and ableism. We will also discuss how the
white supremacist capitalist food system affects our relationships
with eating, fucking, and excretion. Come prepared to make art, share
stories, and get messy. This is a POC-only space.

Uh
oh, looks like I'm going to have to bring my calendar-scribbling pen:
CREATIVE EXCRETION FOR WHITE JEWS.
This is an OJF (Old Jewish Farts)-only space. I'll
let you know what happens.

ENDNOTES:
[You can contact me on Facebook or by email at god@mykelboard.com.
Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music
or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137,
New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified
when anything new is available by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS
Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->I'd
like to pull the trigger dept: Wellesley
Students
have petitioned the university to remove a statue of a sleepwalking
man in his underwear. The reason? It may “trigger unpleasant
memories.” This is related to a series of demands for “trigger
warnings” on course material or other college things “that might
cause strong emotional reactions among students.”

Jeezus!
It was 20 long years ago when we fought the PMRC to take warning
labels OFF of music because it had a chilling effect, causing bands
to change lyrics and record companies to change covers to avoid the
label. Now, we want to put warning labels on TOM SAWYER because
someone might be offended by the word Nigger!
Grow up!

-->Old
news dept:
Further on the NOT JUST GOVERNMENTS CENSOR front: Yale
University Press
will remove all images of Mohammed from The
Cartoons that Shook the World.
A
press spokesman said the images were removed to prevent possible
violence “somewhere in the world.” Maybe they should have just
put a trigger warning on the book.

-->Keeping
the pressure on dept:
I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a Bring
Back Mykel concerted
effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll. He forwarded me an answer to
a letter MRR printed where the editors excuse my firing not as
censorship, but because I “refuse to answer letters in the letters
section.”

That
is not true. I only asked that I be allowed to say I don't LIKE to
answer letters in the letters section. It's unfair to the
letter-writer for the columnist to always get the last word. If MRR
demands I answer there, I will. So here, in ones and zeroes, I'm
publicly agreeing to abide by their rules. Their excuse for
censoring me disappears.

I
hope you'll cut and paste the paragraph above into an email. (Thanks
to those who've already done that) Send it-- along with your
comments-- to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com
with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL. Let me know how they answer.

-->And
I almost forgot. I'm on a massive clean-up/divest kick. I'm giving
away DVDs, Cassettes, VHS videos, and a few CDs. Just pay separate
shipping and handling. Details at: MykelsGiveaway